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Corbin must have had ESP, Melanie figured, because his eyes were on her face, and he touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We will do this.”
And just like that, his manner seemed to thaw. The weighty sense of reluctance he’d arrived with had melted away, replaced by a new vigor. He announced, snapping his notebook shut and putting away his phone, “Now, we go into town.”
She stared at him, thrown for a second. “What?”
“We go into Villeneuve, visit the paint stores, the workshops, so you may get ideas. Villeneuve is an artist’s paradise, so there is much to see.” When he noticed her hesitation, he asked, “You son, won’t he be safe with the nanny?”
She nodded rapidly. “Yes, of course.” That wasn’t what she was worried about. There was no way she was going to admit that the idea of spending the afternoon with him alone together in town was suddenly looming larger than she had expected. His presence was so huge, his eyes so piercing, his aura so engrossing that he almost made her nervous.
She desperately wanted to impress him with her eye for design, and her taste for pretty things, and had been secretly hoping that she would at least have a couple of days to come up with ideas on her own, to refine them, before presenting them to him. Now, she would be wandering around a strange town, blundering into and out of stores, coming up with ideas on the fly like a complete newbie.
Which, to be honest, she was.
Without waiting for an answer, he headed out to the garden, so quickly that she had to step in double-quick time to keep up. Zanifa and Rhys were still laying out their garden, using measuring tape, small pickets, and thick twine. They were both grimy and sweaty, but from their flushed faces and laughter it was clear they were having the time of their lives.
Corbin was speaking in rapid fire French to Zanifa, and from time to time they threw glances at Melanie. Whatever he was saying to her, she thought it was a great idea, as she flashed Melanie the thumbs-up. Once again, she wished to God that Queenie had given her some time to at least get a couple of French classes under her belt.
Then Corbin spoke to Rhys. “Your maman and I are going into town to look for new and exciting things for our project. When we get back, I expect to receive a basket of parsley and thyme from your garden, d’accord?”
Rhys grinned. “You know that can’t happen. We’re only tilling the rows today. We haven’t even got seedlings yet!”
Corbin looked elaborately disappointed. “Such a great pity. I love herbs in my cuisine. What is a dish without cilantro? Without garlic or dill? But never mind. Sometime soon, the three of us will go to the garden store and stock up, okay? And before you leave this town, we will feast on your produce.”
Rhys nodded vigorously, and as Melanie watched the two of them, she felt a pang. Rhys was beaming, basking in Corbin’s attention and validation, two things he rarely received from his own father. The idea of Wilder making an effort to talk to his son about anything other than football, demolition derbies or hunting, would be ludicrous.
She also noticed how her pulse had tripped when Corbin had said, “The three of us” so casually. As if it was natural and normal and expected. Throughout her marriage, especially after Rhys had come along, group activities had been rare. Entertaining children was a woman’s job, and not something a busy man like Wilder ever had the time or the inclination for.
She gave Rhys a hug and promised to be back as soon as she could. She waited for the customary kiss goodbye, but already he was back at Zanifa’s side, sliding back into their conversation as effortlessly as ever.
Corbin threw a glance from mother to son, then grasped her by the elbow and led her to his truck. “That’s how it happens,” he commented kindly. “One minute they are up under your skirts, and the next the world opens up for them and they discover new things on their own.”
As if that made her feel any better. She clambered up into the truck, awash with irritation. “I’m not a helicopter parent! I give Rhys his space!” How dare he, this man who had no child of his own, pass judgment over her relationship with her own son?
He didn’t even look perturbed at her outburst. “I never said you were. I was simply commenting—”
“Don’t,” she said, hopefully not too sharply. “I don’t need your advice.”
But as the truck eased its way down the driveway, and the duo in the garden disappeared from view, she had to stuff down the pang of separation anxiety that was rearing its head.
They lapsed into silence, with Melanie turning her attention to the view outside the window. When they had arrived, it had been too dark to see much, but now she was enchanted by the rolling expanse of greenery, the glorious fields of brightly colored flowers. “That flower farm supplies flowers to some of the most exclusive perfumeries in France,” Corbin said.
She was glad to know that he hadn’t taken too much offense at her irritation. She really needed to keep on this man’s good side. She could achieve nothing without him. She couldn’t even understand why she reacted to him as she did. She wasn’t usually so volatile. Why did he rub her the wrong way like this?
They rounded a corner, and Melanie gasped. Stretching before and slightly below them was a sparkling blue lake, surrounded by clusters of trees and rows of buildings, and interspersed here and there with piers and docks at which small pleasure craft bobbed. The afternoon sun was reflected on the gentle waves, whipped up by a light breeze that she could feel pouring in through the window.
“The lake after which the town was named,” he said helpfully. “Although when you think of it, ‘New Town by the Lake’ is a pretty unimaginative name for a town!” He laughed at his own joke and Melanie was surprised at herself when she joined in.
“Your English is very good,” she blurted.
He shrugged, pulling into a parking spot and shutting off the engine. “Oh, most French people do English in school. But in addition, I studied in London for a couple of years.”
She digested this information. What had he gone all the way to London to study, she wondered. What did a handyman study? Was ‘handymanning’ even a subject? She ventured to ask, “Did you study your…craft?”
He seemed to think about that for a while, and she wasn’t sure whether he found her question stupid or intrusive. Then he said dismissively, even as he hurried around to the other door to open it for her. “No. I studied other things.” He paused and added, “I was at college.”
“Oh,” she said.
His glance was mocking. “You are surprised I went to college?”
